Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“You forgot I’m injured? I’m only asking for your help because I’m injured. You’re only standing in this apartment because I’m injured. I—” He tosses his head back and takes a deep breath before sliding his bag-free hand over his face. When he looks back at me, he says, “I’m going to shower now.”
“Okay.” I sound weak like a mouse in the wake of the anger he’s holding back. When the bathroom door closes, I stand there until I hear the disruption in the sound of the water as he moves under the spray.
“What are you doing, Delaney?” I’ve asked myself this a million times since I met this man yesterday. One rash decision has led to a series of irrational ideas. I’m probably only making things worse.
I gaze down at my ruined dress, aware that the right thing to do would be to leave. Get out now before I dig this grave any deeper.
Starting back down the hall, I enter the living space and soak in a much-needed breath. I have about five minutes to make a final decision on what’s best to do in this situation. I’m realizing that I’m not going to be able to trick him into thinking we’re married. I can tell he doesn’t even believe it now. How will I drag this out for another month?
The answer is right in front of me. It has been all along. The decision was already made. By him.
I look around once more, glad I got to see how the others live. He can keep his beautiful palace in the sky and rule over his company like a king. That doesn’t make my life worth less than his, although it does make me wish the good guys could win. But not all fairy tales have happy endings.
CHAPTER 6
Warner
I blink twice, adding a third slow blink for good measure.
Surely, this can’t be real. I have a concussion, so I must be seeing things. I back out of the closet, close the door, and count to five before opening it again. It’s still the same—a fucking mess. But it makes no sense. How would it get like this?
I open the top drawer to find it empty. Am I losing my mind? Looking lower, I see the bottom drawer sticking out, so I open it to find everything from the top drawer shoved inside it without care. Nothing is folded. Nothing is organized. There’s just a mess of black cotton crowding the drawer. Irritation spirals through me, causing my head to ache more than it already did. I work on a pair of boxer briefs, cursing myself for choosing underwear that’s difficult to get into, and then start searching for my other clothes.
I grab a T-shirt that’s fallen on the floor on the opposite side of where it normally lives and try to pull it over my head. I’m only half successful. This broken arm business is really going to fuck with my day-to-day. I spot a pair of sweatpants and tug those on. I don’t bother trying to tighten the drawstring, since the cast hinders my maneuverability.
Looking around once more, I scratch the back of my head. Delaney tries to come off innocent, but there’s more to this story than she’s sharing. I still don’t fucking know what it is, and it’s doing my head in. Well, the concussion is probably more to blame, but she’s clearly someone with a hatred for orderly closets.
Wife, my ass. There’s no way I would marry someone who lives in such disarray. No fucking way. It would drive me to the edge of sanity looking at that mess every day. I scoff, leaving the closet, cutting through the bedroom, and ready to return to my normal life. As normal as someone who was just in a car accident can be.
My home office silently calls to me when I pass by, just as it did earlier. Staring at the monitor while ordering what I need was enough to take a break from the blinding light. It's probably wise to let the healing process take its course and leave business for tomorrow. Hey, look, I’m turning over a new leaf. Guess that’s what nearly dying does to a man.
I stop when I spot her in the kitchen. Boppy music infiltrates the area around her, and she’s mouthing along, her singing here and there. I take a breath to keep calm. I won’t heal if my blood pressure keeps going through the roof.
Starting toward her, I say, “I didn’t expect you to still be here.”
Her gaze hits me, but then a smile works its way to the corners of her mouth. I can’t deny it looks like she’s struggling to hide her dislike of me. Maybe we were married. Still are . . . separated. Fuck. This is wild.